Simple Baubles
by Mooselk
Summary: Even in Valinor, there is always room for improvement.


He almost had it! The formula was not perfect but if he could just add—for the love of Eru if his hair fell in the way of his quill once more he would—augh. Curufinwë Fëanáro impatiently pushed a strand that had fallen into his line of sight—for the third time that day, no less!—behind his ear and growled in frustration when it flopped right back in front of his face. The leather tie he had hastily wound into his hair was not doing its job, not at all! Had it been socially acceptable to yell at hairties Fëanáro would have already done that. Several times.

Wait.

What did he care about the socially acceptable, anyway? He was the prince of the Noldor, dammit, and if he wanted to yell at inanimate objects he would!

He clawed at the hairtie but now it refused to come out of his hair. After several minutes of frustrated fumbling, Fëanáro finally managed to convince the confounded thing to release its faulty grip on his mane. It yielded to his prowess, but not before taking several clumps of his hair as a war trophy.

With a groan, Fëanáro threw the now-harmless piece of leather onto his workbench and collapsed into his chair. There had to be something that was more effective for holding back hair, and if there wasn't he would invent it! Determined now, he dragged his chair over to the desk, grinning at the ease and silence with which he could maneuver it. He had installed a wooden ball into each leg of the chair. It was, if he could say so himself, one of his finer inventions. Great for spinning around in when no one was watching. Like now.

Three rotations later, and Fëanáro was busily scribbling. A couple designs were quickly rejected, and it took a couple prototypes to teach him that there should be small spikes on the inside, but before long, he had the perfect sketch. He decided he would call it a claw clip.

Never let it be said that Curufinwë Fëanáro did not name things aptly! The clip did, in fact, resemble a claw. With four interlocking spikes on each side, and the cleverly hidden spikes on the inside of the clip that would prevent any slipping, the sketch looked fearsome. Fëanáro grinned at it and got to work preparing the mold and finding metal springs.

His first attempt was made out of a cheap mix of his less valuable materials. It did what it needed to, opening and closing quickly and silently, but one side had not been hammered to his satisfaction. It was the first of a large reject pile on his desk.

Much later, he stood with two perfected clips in his hand. One, large yet light, silver in color, with the top coming together to form something reminiscent of his personal sigil, and the second, small, delicate, burnished with gold, and with small blue flowers laid out of pieces of glass.

He fingered them absently. Both would work for him and yet…if he wore gold it might be taken as a sign that he approved of his father's golden wife. The silver one it was, silver like his mother's hair. Fëanáro never missed an opportunity for symbolism. He raised his hands and clamped the clip into his hair. He shook his head experimentally and smiled in satisfaction when his hair stayed securely behind him.

Fëanáro raised his arm to toss the smaller clip into his reject pile when a peal of laughter split the air outside. He threw a glance out of the forge window to see Findis run past, her long, fine hair billowing behind her like a black cloud. She pushed it behind her ear with an impatient hand and disappeared around the wall.

Fëanáro glanced at the clip in his hand. Not worthy of his use maybe, but Findis' begetting day was coming up…No one would notice another pretty bauble that the girl wore, after all, and here was a chance to show the world that pretty baubles could have uses as well. Nodding his head, Fëanáro pocketed the golden clip and walked out the door.

Findis' smile of thanks was second only to Finwë's.

They come to be known as Fëanorian clips or Fëanorian ties and the reject pile on Fëanáro's desk is quickly claimed by smiths hoping to replicate the design. A shy apprentice asks him for the last one, the initial failure. He warns her that it is his first attempt but she shakes her head and clips it into her hair with a bow of thanks. She is the one to come closest to replicating his success.

He forges many more: each of his sons has at least two, and Nerdanel many times that, but for himself, he never takes another.

* * *

**A/N: Aww Fëanor, don't be so defensive about liking your half-siblings. Findis is an adorable baby and you know it. **


End file.
